


Always Back to the Start

by aurilly



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-15
Updated: 2008-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the heroes band together to conquer yet another menace, Peter forces Mohinder to think about what (or who) he's doing... as if Mo needed to do even <em>more</em> soul-searching on the topic </p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Back to the Start

When Mohinder awoke, sunlight was pouring through the sliding glass doors that led to the terrace. Sylar was perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, peering down at him with a highly conflicted expression on his face. He had put on a shirt, and his pants were half-heartedly pulled up just to his knees. He was bent quite close to Mohinder's face, caught between kissing him, staring at him, and escaping him.

"Sylar?" Mohinder asked in anxious confusion. It was a startling way to wake up, and it took a few seconds for him to remember why this was happening. As it all came rushing back, his mouth formed a surprised and thoughtful, "oh."

This initial reaction seemed to help Sylar make up his mind. He jumped off the bed, quickly finished pulling up his pants, and practically ran out of the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Mohinder groggily followed him out of the room, stopping just long enough to pick his boxers up off the floor and put them on.

"Out." Sylar didn't trust himself to make eye contact. He hurriedly slipped on his shoes and zipped up his coat.

"Is everything ok?" Mohinder was now leaning on the wall of the foyer. He was still trying to wake up and rationalize what was going on, but he felt mysteriously certain that Sylar shouldn't leave, couldn't leave. He didn't know why.

"Yeah. I just need… and you probably need… I'll be back," Sylar stated on his way out of the apartment.

"When?" Mohinder asked.

Hearing the genuine concern in Mohinder's voice made Sylar pause, and a softness he had been trying to repress crept back into his eyes as he turned around to face the other man. He made a move as if to backtrack towards Mohinder and touch him, but he stopped himself at an awkward point in his gait. A purely joyous grin---the kind that hadn't been seen since the Zane days… or, well, which hadn't been seen between the Zane days and the previous night---seemed on the verge of overtaking his features, and he made a series of almost comical facial twitches in his effort to suppress it. Sylar's tongue seemed to be facing a similar dilemma to that of his legs and face, torn between forming words that were gentle, and saying something more characteristically stern and aloof.

He cleared his throat and forced his features to settle. "Soon," he replied, and left the apartment before his legs, face, or tongue could betray him further.

Mohinder now found himself alone in the extravagant four-bedroom luxury penthouse he had sublet under an assumed name a few days before to throw off his attackers. The logic had been that no one would think to look for him and Sylar, together, in New York, and especially not in such outlandish digs. Wondering _what now?_, Mohinder absent-mindedly massaged one of his shoulders. It dawned on him that for practically the first time ever, he had absolutely nothing to do today, so he turned around and went back into the bed they had just shared. The sheets were still mussed, and the imprint from the intertwined position they had fallen asleep in could still be seen in the middle.

Mohinder carefully lay on his back in the same spot he just woken up in. It was the same position he had fallen asleep in, too, with Sylar draped over him. The white ceiling formed the perfect blank slate upon which to project the memories he played like a film behind his hazy eyes. In the stillness of the blue and white room, he could almost feel Sylar's recent presence all over again.

"I always…" Sylar had murmured just before they fell asleep, draping one leg protectively over Mohinder's torso and snuggling into his side---it was Mohinder's favorite thing. He had always liked feeling the weight and warmth of a person on him; he had no idea how Sylar had known that. And just as instinctively, Mohinder had known understood everything---both emotional and physical---Sylar meant by the unfinished phrase.

Mohinder's hand now rested inside the waistband of his boxers, hovering between two times and two worlds: the pleasant dryness of the bedroom air that signaled the new day's promise, and the moist, sex-soaked heat inside the cloth that reminded him of what had so recently transpired. Mohinder started off reaching unconsciously downwards as the images of the previous night washed over him, but he ultimately decided against trying to recreate by himself the more tactile elements of the night.

And tactile it had been. Mohinder remembered having wondered fleetingly as they began if this experience would be something supernatural, as logic-defying as Sylar himself. But no, the other man had seemed to want or need nothing more special than Mohinder, and the basics of what was happening between them. There was no unnatural heat, no floating objects; in fact, there had been nothing out of the ordinary at all about what was happening, except the fact that it was happening between them in the first place.

Everything had gone completely counter to what Mohinder would have expected, had he ever imagined such a thing happening… okay, fine, he _had _thought about it once or twice… well, maybe a few more times than that… but still. He never would have thought he'd find himself crouched on his knees over a reclined Sylar, doing something so intimate and completely for the other man's pleasure, and most of all, _enjoying _it. Mohinder now smiled as he remembered Sylar's eyes growing ever wider with unspoken but understood emotions. And never in a million years would he have expected Sylar to so fervently desire Mohinder to take the dominant role, guiding himself inside and claiming Sylar as Mohinder's own, instead of the other way around. And yet, it had all made a weird kind of sense.

In addition to surprisingly normal and tactile, it had been pretty quiet, too. They had dispensed with the compliments, banal chatter, and shy questions inherent to most first encounters. Instead, they had lapsed into a semi-silent language that Mohinder would never have expected them to share so intuitively. A kiss meant _I've always wanted to touch you here_. A rub meant _Is this ok for me to do? _A groan meant _Oh god, yes_. A whisper of the other's name meant _I---_

Mohinder realized that he was slowly starting to nod off again when, instead of reliving precisely what had happened, inappropriate daydreams and interpretations seemed to start creeping in to confuse his actual memories. He shook himself out of the reverie and glanced over at the clock. The guilt common to most terminally driven people when they find themselves idle overtook him as he realized it was already eleven, and here he was, still lounging in bed.

As he stood up, Mohinder's eyes traveled to the floor and rested on the pillow upon which Sylar had laid Mohinder's head when he brought him back here unconscious and dying. Mohinder thought back to his traumatized awakening; denuded by Sylar of his cold, wet clothes, he had opened his eyes to the strange sensation of having broken ribs reset without the use of hands or instruments, and his body encapsulated in a heat that didn't come from the vents. Sylar was frantically rubbing Mohinder's hands in an attempt to warm him with good old-fashioned friction. It was a superfluous action when he was already reheating Mohinder much more effectively with his ability, but it epitomized the relationship that had solidified between them in the past few weeks. Only a couple of seconds had elapsed between Mohinder first coming to, then dizzily grabbing Sylar for support, and finally the frenzied, inevitable make-out session. He wasn't sure who had initiated it, but as soon as that dam was breached, neither one of them was going to turn back.

It had felt only natural, especially given Mohinder's last thought before blacking out and drowning. As he flew through the air and crashed into the water, he had felt his heart clenching in fear, not for himself, but for Sylar, fighting for his life as he was menaced by their most dangerous enemies yet… _their enemies_. Talk about radical changes.

Mohinder now ambled towards the kitchen, stretching gingerly and making himself aware of all of his sore spots. Most of them were in muscles and places on his body that he had almost never thought about or felt before. Mohinder couldn't be sure if the soreness was due to the new and particular exertions of lovemaking with a man, or if it simply had been so long since he'd had that kind of exercise that he had forgotten what a morning after felt like. Or maybe it also had to do with the more obvious physical trauma of getting thrown off a building and into the freezing East River the evening before.

Bits of grime from the harbor still glinted among his arm hairs, embedded there from the sweat and rubbing of sex. The back of Mohinder's head ached from the impact that had knocked him unconscious, and when he touched it, red flakes of dried blood embedded in his curls came off on his fingers. It had been some fight, his most perilous and violent yet. If he and Sylar hadn't had one another, then… Mohinder didn't want to think about it.

Mohinder turned on the kettle and leaned absent-mindedly against the counter as he waited for the water to boil. He didn't feel comfortable here. It wasn't that he was a homebody, longing for his own abode, or that he was unused to grand luxury. Not at all. It was simply the extreme gadget-yness of the place that frustrated him. The crotchety part of his brain was annoyed to be paying a premium on the sublet for all the "exciting, high-end" devices that served only to irritate him. Everywhere Mohinder turned was some shiny machine designed to do a very simple (and often wholly unnecessary) task in a very complicated way, and it was too much trouble to figure out how everything worked. Fumbling with the counter-intuitive switches on the electric kettle reminded him that this was basically his first time alone in the apartment; Sylar had always been there to tease him and instantaneously understand how to work the impossibly convoluted television remote, the sink faucets, the espresso machine, the thermostat…

Mohinder was now able to admit to himself that the past couple of weeks had been almost inappropriately enjoyable, even in the face of daily peril. Mohinder and Sylar had bounced from city to city, following clues, and recreating a much more honest version of their initial roadtrip. He had been tense and skeptical at their initial planning meeting with Peter and the rest of the gang, and he had been frankly appalled at the idea of partnering with Sylar. But Sylar refused to go with anyone else. They'd all decided to put the past behind them long enough to defeat this new danger that threatened all of them. As the days passed, each containing humorous little moments, shared reveries, and hopelessly awkward pauses of tension that were anything but antagonistic, Mohinder had found himself _trying_ to maintain his usual brusque and angry demeanor, rather than having it come naturally with the man he had up to now succeeded in continuing to consider a foe.

The ring of the landline interrupted the silence in the apartment. Unless it was the owner of the property or someone calling for a previous renter, it could only be either Sylar or Peter. They were the only ones who knew the number of this secret hideout.

With an almost giddy feeling of anticipation, Mohinder picked up the phone. "Hello?" he asked, reveling in the new freedom he felt not to have to disguise his voice.

"Congratulations!" was the reply on the other end. Mohinder felt just slightly disappointed when he recognized Peter's elated tones coming through the receiver, but tried to check it.

"Thank you," he replied simply, and smiled. Although his giddiness had receded, Mohinder was still happy to hear from him. The end of the nightmare and friends like Peter were among the many things he had to feel good about today. "Since I have you on the phone, I have a question. How do you work these new-fangled toasters?"

"Sylar's gone, huh?" The way Peter asked the question was loaded.

"Yes," he replied, wanting to feel out the situation and the ammunition behind Peter's remark before giving anything away.

"Yeah, I was waiting until he left so I could get you on the phone alone." Mohinder always did a double take when Peter stated information that he had gleaned from the use of his powers. "What are you going to do with yourself today? You're free now. You can do anything you want."

"I really have no idea. As you can imagine, I don't have any plans. And any I might have thought I had yesterday are now null and void," Mohinder said.

"What about meeting me for a celebratory drink at The Campbell Apartment? My treat. That is, if you're feeling well enough."

"I'm feeling fine, but I don't know. I…" Mohinder's stomach clenched with a vague fear of seeing anyone he knew at this moment.

Peter ignored Mohinder's diffidence. "I'll give you a chance to wake up, and I'll see you at two, okay? Don't forget to wear real shoes, otherwise they won't let you in."

"Oh, alright," Mohinder agreed halfheartedly. He felt annoyed at being bossed around, but didn't have a worthwhile excuse to get out of it. He knew he had to start living life again sometime, but he just didn't want to deal with reality just yet; he was scared to even think about what thinking about it might mean.

There was a pause before Peter asked, "You okay? You sound weird."

Mohinder thought for a moment before answering. "I think we've just forgotten what normal sounds like."

"Maybe," Peter replied. He seemed unconvinced.

******************************************************

A couple of hours later, Mohinder slid into a seat across the table from Peter, who was looking relaxed and confident, and who had already ordered both of them a beer.

After giving a high-five and raising his glass in a toast, Peter gave Mohinder the once-over. "You look like hell," he observed with a smile.

"I think I'm allowed," Mohinder replied with a smirk.

A curious look crept into Peter's face. "Sure, but why didn't you at least bathe? You're disgusting."

Mohinder squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Yes, he was covered in all manner of filth, but he wanted it that way. He liked feeling recent events imprinted on his body; it made him feel as though he was still fully appreciating everything that had happened. "I didn't get around to it. Leave me alone. Hey, I'm wearing real shoes, so be happy about that," he said pissily.

"Sorry," Peter said, and laughed to himself.

"Well, since we're both sitting here safe and sound, I take it everything else went according to plan?" Mohinder asked.

Peter nodded happily. "Yeah, after Sylar got you out of there, Claude, Bennet and I were able to finish them off. It's all done. Finally."

"Great news," Mohinder said, but Peter could tell he was distracted.

Peter leaned forward conspiratorially and finally broached the subject Mohinder was dreading. "So… Sylar. How did you get out of _that_ this morning?"

Mohinder didn't know how he knew, but the incredulous, almost humorous tone in which Peter spoke of it hurt. Mohinder had been right not to want to see anyone else today. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said coldly, and hoped Peter would take the hint.

He didn't. "Oh come on. I didn't even need to read your mind. You've got ill-advised, drunken escapade written all over you."

"I am not drunk!" Mohinder stormed, irrelevantly.

Peter shrugged. "Near-death experiences work just as well as alcohol. Look, maybe it's something you two just needed to get out of your systems. Unfortunate, but… Well, everyone sees it… ya know, that _thing _between you. I mean, it's fucking _weird_, but… I don't know. Sometimes life takes you to strange places and forces you to make huge mistakes. I know how it is. Anyway. Did you let him down easy?"

"This is really none of your business," Mohinder answered, thinking of the almost affectionate way in which he had said goodbye that morning. He knew that what both of them had wanted was for him to urge Sylar not to go. For some reason, he had been too afraid to do so then, but now wished he had.

Peter's looked shocked as he read Mohinder's mind. "Don't tell me you didn't let him down at all! Tell me this was a one night stand kind of thing."

Mohinder wanted to punch the man in front of him. "Actually, I don't particularly want to tell you _anything_."

Peter was still incredulous. "You're not actually taking this seriously? You're not thinking of… god, I don't even know." When Mohinder simply looked quietly into his mug, Peter asked, "Well, where is he now?"

"I don't know," Mohinder replied, suddenly feeling very glum.

Peter shook his head. "Doesn't that bother you? It bothers me. I mean, it's Sylar. Yeah, he was great in this recent thing, but now it's done and… well, _it's Sylar_."

Mohinder gulped. Peter was right. He couldn't believe this was happening, that he was sitting here, feeling soppy about a serial killer. And yet, he wanted to be fine with it. What did that mean?

"Look," Mohinder said. "Maybe things are different. You haven't been living with him for the past three weeks. Maybe there's more to Sylar than… well, you know." Deep down, Mohinder believed his own words, but he was aware of how ridiculous they sounded to someone else.

"Maybe there is, but you're the only one he shows it to. Honestly, I don't know. I want to believe you, for all of our sakes. I'm just scared. I don't want you getting hurt. I don't want you living in some willfully misguided fantasy. I don't want you holding onto something that isn't actually real."

"It isn't like that," Mohinder tried to deny.

"Oh yeah? Then why haven't you taken a shower?" Peter asked pointedly.

Mohinder had no response to this.

As Peter sat and stared, his face lit up with an idea. "Alright, I'm going to stop bothering you now. Are you going back to your place later? I mean, your normal apartment."

Mohinder hadn't thought that far ahead, but saw no reason not to go back, especially since the sublet was annoying him so much. "I suppose so. Why?"

"Nothing," Peter said evasively. "I'll check up on you tomorrow morning, ok?"

******************************************************

Mohinder opened the door to his apartment. The late afternoon sun cast a pale glare through the front room as it struggled to come in through the awkwardly shaped windows. It had been weeks since Mohinder was last here, before he had to go on the run with none of his belongings. He had gone through a lifetime's worth of adventure and emotional upheaval in the meantime, and it struck him as almost wrong for things in here to look exactly as they had when he first moved in years ago: cereal boxes on the counter, exotic lamps hanging at odd angles, papers and science equipment strewn everywhere, paint peeling from the walls and well-worn furniture.

He was still standing in the living room wondering what to do first when he noticed something unexpected on the stovetop: a packet wrapped in tin foil with a handwritten note sitting on top.

_I once asked Nathan what I should do with this, with something that had killed me. He suggested putting it under my pillow, but I thought of a better use for it. I'm not angry and I'm not judging, but I just want to make sure you remember._

_Peter_

Mohinder knew what the tin foil would contain before he finished opening it. Inside was a large shard of glass from his erstwhile bookcase, stained with blood. The blood had hardened and rusted, leaving ugly dark burgundy streaks all over it. Even more disgusting was the way grey and brown bits had dried onto the sharp end--_-brain matter_.

Just as Peter must have intended, horrifying memories swept over Mohinder in a wave. One rarely got such a physical reminder of times gone. Artifacts as time machines: Peter had known this would be more effective than a verbal lecture.

Mohinder was catapulted to that fateful day. The discovery of the betrayal of one he considered his only friend in this country. His failure to take revenge that he knew to be justified. The brutal murder of an acquaintance right in his own living room. He felt sick to his stomach._ What had he been thinking? _It was madness. No matter what had transpired recently and might transpire in the future, this could not, and would not, be washed away. Mohinder felt as if a cold hand was squeezing all of his internal organs. He knew what he had to do, but what frightened him was that even staring at this potent reminder, he wished he didn't have to.

He was still standing in the dark corner of the kitchen when he heard the door open behind him. Mohinder tensed up, and retreated further into the shadow. He wasn't sure how this was going to go.

"How did you know I would be here?" he asked.

"Last time I checked, you _live _here. Plus, it's getting dark, and you don't know how to turn the lights on in the other place," Sylar teasingly replied. He paused hesitantly for a moment before crossing the room and wrapping his arms lightly around Mohinder. He held his breath as he did it; they both knew what a huge step this was. They stood awkwardly like that for a moment, with Mohinder standing stiffly in Sylar's arms, and Sylar's head resting delicately on Mohinder's shoulder. After awhile, Sylar finally realized that Mohinder was not responding to his embrace.

Picking his head up, he whispered, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Mohinder said, but moved to wriggle away, unable to look at the other man. Sylar gave him a quizzical look, and then telekinetically flicked the light switch on. Now that they were no longer in the dark, Sylar reached out to grab Mohinder's face by the chin and tilt it upwards so he could read his expression. Mohinder stood paralyzed, but couldn't help glancing over at the counter.

Sylar's eyes followed Mohinder's gaze. "What's this?" he asked, and took a step towards the package.

Mohinder tried to grab the note and tear it up, but Sylar was too fast for him. As he read, a sneer spread over his features. Sylar looked over at the slab of glass and in a moment comprehended everything.

"That passive-aggressive piece of…" he murmured. Sylar sighed heavily before turning back to face Mohinder. "So?" he asked through pursed lips.

Mohinder looked at the floor and bit his lip. When he finally felt able to address Sylar, there was only a barely discernible quaver in his voice. "I think you know. This idea… this entire situation is insanity. It would be best to pretend it never happened, and know that it can never happen again."

Sylar had prepared himself to deal with some guilt-ridden resistance the moment he read the note, but the colossal retread in their situation implied by Mohinder's words was like a punch in the gut. He reeled backwards and collapsed into a chair behind him, the same one that had never recovered from getting smashed during the epic altercation that had ended with Mohinder on the ceiling. Sylar covered his face with his hands and did his best to keep it together, to repress the heartbroken cry that wanted to escape his lips.

"But… but we were making so much progress," he lamented, sounding just as betrayed and vulnerable as the last time he had said it in that chair, in such different circumstances---or were they?

By now, Mohinder had managed to will his natural confidence to return to his voice and posture. He knew how to do this. He told himself to think of it just like the old days. He tried to tell himself that nothing had changed. "You killed my father," he stated flatly.

Sylar's jaw dropped in disbelief. "Not this again. We are not back here. Not after everything that's happened."

Although it was somewhat of an effort, Mohinder found the verbal spars and the argumentative tone he had been accustomed to using with Sylar---it wasn't that long ago, but it felt like it---coming more easily now. "Saving my life doesn't mean---" he began hotly.

Sylar furrowed his brow in confusion. He hadn't even thought about his actions as having created any sort of obligation on Mohinder's part. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about…" Sylar trailed off, not wanting to soil the memory by verbalizing it only to have it immediately be shat on by whatever Mohinder was about to say.

"That didn't mean anything. Just like it didn't mean anything the last time. In Montana," Mohinder said with forced coldness, but Sylar picked up on the sadness behind his eyes.

Sylar gaped. "But that was different… I wasn't being… It was different." Sylar compelled himself to calm down. "And it _did _mean something. Both times did. I know you. This isn't what you really think."

Mohinder said nothing.

When it finally hit him that this was actually happening, something momentarily broke in Sylar. He got up and walked over to grab Mohinder by the elbow. "You need more time. I should have known. It was too soon. Should have waited some more. But it can work. It'll be fine with more time." Sylar was babbling in a desperate whisper, practically breathing into Mohinder's face as he clung to him.

"Sylar, this isn't about---" Mohinder started gently, but Sylar interrupted him.

"I said I'm giving you more time!" he almost shouted.

Mohinder looked down at his arm, which was being held in a vise-like grip. He didn't try to shake himself free; he simply looked at Sylar's hand holding him, the knuckles turning white in intensity. They stood in silence like this for a minute before Mohinder walked backwards and pulled out of the grip.

"I'm going to kill him," Sylar growled in disappointed fury. His arm was still in the position it had been when it lost contact with Mohinder seconds before.

"You've already done that," Mohinder dispassionately reminded him.

Still stunned, Sylar backed up and crossed the room towards the door. He turned around to face Mohinder, who was left standing alone in the center of the relatively empty room. Sylar flicked a finger, and there ensued a silent battle between Mohinder's physical strength and Sylar's mental powers. The glass shard cut a deep groove in Mohinder's fingers as he tried to hold onto it against Sylar's telekinesis summoning it away. The anger driving the employment of his ability was so forceful that Sylar lost his usual control; when he finally wrenched it out of Mohinder's grasp and sent it careening towards himself, the sharp edge crashed into his hand, and a mixture of both his and Mohinder's blood spread over Peter's dried brains. Sylar turned the rusty glass over and over in his hand, contemplating it with a supercilious little smile that frightened Mohinder.

"Sylar, please don't---" Mohinder pleaded.

Sylar walked to the door, and with a last look over his shoulder, he replied, "I don't want to leave this here for you to obsess over." And he was gone.

Mohinder stood staring for a minute or two. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to think. He didn't want to make a noise; he somehow felt sure that Sylar would be listening for a few blocks to see what Mohinder might do, and if he heard Mohinder exhibiting regret about what had just transpired… Well, Mohinder wasn't sure what might happen, and whether or not he could handle it.

All at once, he knew what to do. With an even, calm-sounding pace, he walked quickly to the bathroom. Hysteria was building up quickly. He only had enough time before he lost it to turn the sink and shower on full power and kick off his shoes before climbing into the bathtub fully dressed. The deafening water drowned out his sobs and washed away the tears as he sank down, hugging his knees on the floor of the bathtub. One by one, until he was completely nude, Mohinder shed already soaked garments and pushed them past the shower curtain to drop gently on the bathroom floor. The almost scalding water beat down on him, ridding him of all the physical signs of the past couple of days, except for the blood that now poured from the fresh wound on his hand. Mohinder watched it form a red stream that disappeared down the drain.

After a few minutes, Mohinder wasn't quite sure what he was crying about anymore. He stood up, picked up the shampoo bottle, and with a determined sigh, decided to call Bennet when he was done. This month's crisis had been averted, but Mohinder was sure there was more work to be done. There always was.


End file.
